… ano toki …
by RoseMillenia
Summary: Despair, tragedy, loss, suffering, chaos, emptiness, sadness, grief, sorrow, dejection, meloncholy...light...
1. commemoration

... ano toki ...  
  
RoseMillenia  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Rurouni Kenshin in any way, shape or form. Although I do not own the original idea of the great animated samurai classic, I do own the contents of this story (as in plot) thus republication/stealing/plagiarism will not be tolerated. You have been warned. (creepy grin)  
  
xxXXxx  
  
... ano toki ...  
  
commemoration  
  
xxXXxx  
  
He leaned against the vast mass of stone and brick that had collapsed in the deadly fire all those years ago, in the fire of entity and of forever whispers that called him. He hadn't been there since the day that his glorious betrothed leader had been reduced to cinders. Although he had left of his own accord, it made him feel somewhat guilty. He knew that his leader wouldn't have felt anything mutual, considering his dignified little gem had only been his 'nourishment' and that really never struck the boy when he was under the massive control. But now that the boy had time to think, hell, he had all the time in the world to think, he really missed and hated that very man.   
  
The man was powerful; there was no denying that fact. That made the man very invulnerable. In all honesty, very few people were able to dig into that evil man's heart. And the boy had stayed with him since he had been eight years old. Now...edging closer and closer to his thirty-third birthday...he supposed that maybe he had spent all the time he had requited wandering the country. The desperate catacombs of humanity sometimes called, but the boy felt that this was right. Leaving now. But, ano toki ... protecting, mamoru, had been all he had done. It's what he had felt was particularly just for all his sins. Fighting ... fighting was what he had done from the years eight to twenty-two. And killing. The gruesome battles he had sparked with his immature and somewhat innocent actions made him cringe to that very day. He was a child locked in love and hate with his battles and he never gave a sign of any remorse for the victim. Now that he looked back at this, he realized how sick it made him feel when he thought of how many he had slain, and how many misfortunate souls he smirked at within himself and as felt his incorruption seep through him like kaze whipping though the early morning town.   
  
But it was much more than that. He knew he was a murderer. And then, he stopped. He stopped his senseless insanity, with his inculpable greed for human blood blocked away for good. He continued down the path of humantis, searching for the reasons. He didn't even need most of the questions given to him, he only needed the solutions that his fragile and docile mind needed to survive, and found his unquenchable need for the putrid serum that poured from other's lifeless corpses no longer controlling his mind. But.. that didn't mean the boy didn't think to throw in the towel during his travels. That wasn't what Himura had done. Himura never gave up. Himura never gave up on him. ... Himura ...   
  
The boy wondered how that strong and utterly catalectic man was faring. He was rather poetic in the sense that he was such a kind and innocent with a future. And that in itself almost made a poem about the Hitokiri. It sung a song, it chirped a tune, it was all that breathed and strived for life. And the boy realized this. He breathed, he knew. He was refreshed.  
  
The wanderings were over now. He had reached the place he wanted to go. He had found this old mansion. If he were to dig under the deep and callous abode that lay undisturbed with age and a strange twinge of fantasia of what happened for those who knew not, he would probably find the very ashes that lay for his dearly beloved Yumi-san and Shishio-san. Creating graves for them in the sweet land of Hokkaido had been what he wanted to do. All those years ago, the boy had realized that he needed to leave, and he knew they would perish at the hands of Himura, even if Himura never broke his vow to kill in the first place. It would still be inevitable, the ending would mean that Shishio would have to die. So he mourned and grieved for them, and protected. Yes. Always protecting the weak. Always.   
  
The boy's hair had grown long and well since he had last remembered and lay loosely about his shoulders, which was strange for a samurai. Long and flowing like springs of ink. His boyish figure had never changed. He still held the same respectable amount of muscle, but held his litheness to the end, as he knew he would never look stronger. But his eyes ... they held wisdom and age, caressing care of forever and still held their youthful and pearly sky-dyed color. He knew he looked still too young for his age and was constantly interrogated about his weapons, two large scythes and a wakizashi, which he had received recently. The scythes were to respect his late and old comrade Kamatari-kun, who had passed away recently, dying of a fatal lung disease that even German medicine could not heal. He carried the scythes in honor of his innocent death and forever shed tears for the kind-hearted man, for the boy knew how much that man longed for his voivode.   
  
Kamatari never won him in the end, so the boy only prayed that their spirits be guided in the afterlife. His wakizashi went without question, it was to respect his evil leader, but with a back-blade. It shone through with a fraction of the new Hitokiri Battousai and the hints of the old Makoto Shishio. So it was one of the most unlikely swords to come across, as it was an expensive and valuable sword which was quite lethal, but with a reversed blade that usually confused many. To respect the two most different people of the old era was what the boy was trying to accomplish as they both held special places in his heart. They would forever.   
  
His attire had also changed. But he wore a new hakama from when he was a crazed assassin, now it shone in a vibrant but 'washed' etiolated mauve. He wore his arms in his hakama lately, as it had become a habit.   
  
He smiled as always to passersby, and never commented on anyone, even in his head. He lay in the woods at times, sleeping and fending for himself, which was easily passable. Sometimes he liked the company of others so he lay his head on pillows for nights at a time, making friends here and there at local inns. He took care of thieves and pesky law-breakers to protect the civilians of Japan. He always won. He thought that he would have to defend himself like Himura had to ... copying him was something he had tried to avoid. But although he was in many ways alike to Himura, the boy was different that he left the scythes un-turned and they were used sparingly. He killed but only when absolutely necessary. It was what made the boy an unknown samurai instead of a rurouni like Himura. He would never be a rurouni but he would be something close to it and strive for this Meiji era.   
  
The sky looked as though it were strewn with diamonds. Shining menacingly, the boy smiled and jumped with grace and agility across the rubble and cement and finally made his way back to the forest he was trudging though before. Wanderings were complete. A new slate. Everything was going to change now. Soujirou felt a need for this new presence that had dug his way into the back of his mind. It was time to go towards that place. It was time to find Himura.   
  
(tbc)  
  
xxXXxx 


	2. commemoration2

... ano toki ...  
  
RoseMillenia  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Rurouni Kenshin in any way, shape or form. Although I do not own the original idea of the great animated samurai classic, I do own the contents of this story (as in plot) thus republication/stealing/plagiarism will not be tolerated. You have been warned. (creepy grin)  
  
xxXXxx  
  
... ano toki ...  
  
commemoration part 2  
  
xxXXxx  
  
The day was warm and full of hustling excitement. It was a busy day in Kyoto. Such a busy day, and the day would only get busier as it progressed. A small group of friends sat under the shade of umbrellas held by water weights and chatting was occurring contently. Misao giggled happily as her Aoshi held her hand with love. Aoshi sat next to her, his warm eyes filled with joy to be with his two best friends. Misao looked different...much different from when she was a small, un-endowed genki sixteen-year-old. Her hair was still as long as ever, but now she usually left it out without hurrying with the metal clasp at the end every morning. She wore kimono's now, but was still the same hyper, courageous girl she always was. She also wore makeup from time to time, which was a rare thing for the weasel girl. But women who were married definitely were expected to be as lady like as they could. She and Aoshi had been wed only three years ago, but the always enjoyed every year of it. Misao was turning twenty-seven in a few weeks, so she felt old. But -- from what Aoshi told her -- she looked radiant from the second she got up, and to the second she laid her head down to sleep, even if she thought she looked like a mess. His heart had gone soft for her those years ago, and found he truly did love her. So Misao could do nothing else but happily reply yes to his proposal, and there they were, the married couple that they were meant to be forever.   
  
Misao wore a beautifully decorated classy kimono with swirls of silver embedded into the fabric and the original color an olive green. The obi was silver and the strap across, black. She wore geta on her feet instead of her old ninja strapped-shoes, which were far more comfortable than the geta, but she wasn't complaining. Misao smiled even more brightly and snuggled into Aoshi's arm with glee. She grinned to the other man sitting across from them, staring at them with a smile and tiredly contemplating what to think. Kenshin had his sword standing upright and his palm resting gently on the hilt. His amethyst, iridescent orbs gazed at the couple with happiness. He knew it was beautiful to be that in love. His clothes had changed with little extent over the years, but his hakama color had been converted to something with variety. It wasn't exactly a thrilling color, but his piinku colored one made him think of his rurouni days. The longhaired samurai now wore an alabaster filled hakama with his usual gi. His geta were the same, and the socks had also changed to a white color. He looked rather conspicuous in the crowd, but it was all right. His ponytail still stayed loyal by his side, and the cross-scar never leaving. He was now thirty-nine years old. He felt weaker, somewhat less of a help to the people around him and more like a nuisance. Misao and Aoshi always explained that wasn't the case, saying he was more than welcome to visit them at any time, but he usually declined their kind offers, even though a small part of him did have the regretful urge to move out of the empty, dusty and alone dojo. So he would be happy. But he couldn't.  
  
Not that now she was dead.   
  
A year had now passed from the tragic day. It was more than a year, actually, and Kenshin held his dying love in his arms that mournful juncture, to hear her last words, to feel her last caressing whispers, and to let her tears fall as she smiled weakly. Kaoru-dono had been a loved and cherished part of himself, more than Tomoe, even. Kenshin knew that now. But she was gone ... a disease they knew nothing about swept over her quickly and so it took her life from her tightly enclosed hands. She struggled and held tightly to life like a small child, and Kenshin saw her die a little more every day. The disease was eating her. He cringed and wished her to get better; the tears cascading when he was around her for the last few days she was vital. When she was alive ... when she was alive, everything was better. Hell had to be better than to see that happen twice. It had to be.  
  
The samurai had been able to find out what had killed her, it was a new disease that somehow made it's way to Japan from America. She seemed to be the only one affected from back then, as other doctors didn't know how to treat it. It was something called 'The Plague.' Kenshin loathed saying that word. It made his spine start to shake and his eyes glint with hatred. Sickness took his parents, and they took her too.   
  
He knew he still needed to live, but everyday that reason dimmed a little inside of his battered and bruised heart. Both women were deceased, and he had loved them more than anything he had ever known. But living was still important. Maybe. Someone needed him, even if he didn't know who that was at the current moment.   
  
Yahiko had moved out and married Tsubame, only half a year ago; they lived in Hokkaido now. Near where Shishio's and Yumi's grave where, if Kenshin thought correctly. Yahiko doubted leaving so soon and to leave Kenshin all by himself, so soon after the death he thought Kenshin was too emotionally disturbed to be left so rapidly. But Kenshin urged them to go, they were married, they shouldn't stay with a doddering old fool like himself. Yahiko was very determined to stick with his idolized father figure, but persuasion from Tsubame finally led him to the decision that Kenshin could definitely survive without the young man around. Yahiko was only twenty-two, but he was smarter than a herd of people with his calculations that he made inside of his always generating mind, and he was unbelievably powerful. He held the same type of lean-ness that Kenshin possessed, and he carried the Kasshin-Hiten-Ryuu with him. After the death of Kaoru, Yahiko had the marvelous idea to combine the two techniques of sword into a melded style. It held the power of Hiten but held the principle of the Kasshin, so it was the lovers' gift to the sword world, to protect and to fight, to kill and love, the opposites that attracted and made music. Kenshin remembered how proud of Yahiko he was when his "son" had done this for him. He felt so loved. But Yahiko was away now. And Kenshin had only his ultimate grief. Why was life this unfair?   
  
Sanosuke had left him as well, but that was well over five years ago. Sano had left to travel the world, he spoke of Russia and a small place named 'Mongolia,' which the scarlet-haired 'oro' boy knew nothing of, but supported Sano all the way. He missed the kind man more than perhaps Yahiko, but that was reasonable, because Sanosuke couldn't be contacted, and because Sano didn't even know about Jou-chan's cease to be. He would go insane when he found out. He might go hysterical, as Kenshin knew how much that man loved her too.   
  
It was all screwed up.  
  
Well ... Kenshin had Misao and Aoshi. He had their daughter Midori and he had the Aoiya. But ... that wasn't enough. It couldn't be. No matter what he felt alone. Always alone. There was silence in his mind for days at a time. No strategizing, no processing, no thinking. Emptiness. It was so wrong.  
  
" ... Himura?"  
  
Kenshin's head came up from it's dazed trance and he stared at Misao's bright mizuiro colored eyes filled to the brim with concern.   
  
"Are you all right, Himura?"  
  
As long as Kenshin had known Misao, she never did have the proper respect that she owed him, but he really never wanted to tell her. She would never call him 'Kenshin.' It would always be 'Himura.' That was comforting. He smiled up to the docile twenty-seven year old and blinked twice.   
  
"Sessha daijoubu, de gozaru," He said quietly. "Not to worry, Misao."  
  
"Would you like to make your way back to the Aoiya, Ken-san?" Aoshi asked softly. Kenshin had noticed that the man had begun to call him 'Ken-san' a few months ago after deserting the name 'Battousai,' as Kenshin was now one of his dear, dear friends. Aoshi had never planned anything to be like they were, but wouldn't dream of it any other way. He was too content.   
  
Maybe it was meant to be that way.   
  
And perhaps the glint of long, black hair in the crowd made the rurouni stand up with fright and knock the table down with excitement. Was--was it him? 


	3. constant closure

... ano toki ...  
  
RoseMillenia  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Rurouni Kenshin in any way, shape or form. Although I do not own the original idea of the great animated samurai classic, I do own the contents of this story (as in plot) thus republication/stealing/plagiarism will not be tolerated. You have been warned. (creepy grin)  
  
xxXXxx  
  
... ano toki ...  
  
"H-Himura! Where are you going?!" Misao called out as Kenshin darted past his friends, upset, confused, and trying to see the man in the crowd. The umbrella fell to the ground with a clatter and water sprayed everywhere, as the weight had tipped over. People began to shriek quietly and gasp as Kenshin sped hastily through the crowd like a bullet, searching for the glint of hair he had seen. That hair would mean everything. To see that boy again ... more than anything. More than anything.   
  
Misao tried to chase after him but found that running in a kimono was very useless and stopped in the middle of the street, staring after his rapidly retreating red-and-white figure. Aoshi held her shoulders and stared confused and worried as well as he walked to her slowly.  
  
"Don't worry koishii...he'll be fine...and he'll come back, he's like a lost kitten, ne?" Aoshi smiled and stroked her cheek. Misao weakly tweaked her lips up back at him. But in the furthest retreats of her mind she was desperately searching for reasons why he behaved like that. He had never behaved like that.   
  
"Nn, Aoshi. I know. But I wonder what he's been thinking lately and I worry about him. It's been so recent since Kaoru-chan passed ... I hope our Himura isn't going insane ... and I know that the pain he must feel, oh Himura must feel terrible!" Misao wrapped herself into Aoshi's comforting arms as people continued to stare at them in the streets. Misao began to cry quietly and Aoshi stroked her hair as he 'shh'-ed her. Aoshi wondered himself what was wrong with Himura to make the wanderer act so violently and so strangely. He looked so helpless, so confused, so ... dazed. Aoshi had never seen the expression laid upon the man's face before. The Oniwabanshuu-Shisho was doubting his own words to himself. What if this was just the beginning of strange acts of Himura? What would become of the man? An empty shell? Was that his future?  
  
Iie.  
  
It was not.  
  
xxXXxx   
  
Keep running, keep running, you'll find him, you will...These were the thoughts processing in the ex-hitokiri's mind. The only thoughts, actually. There was no 'if it's not him' or 'what about the Shinomori's?' Only the constant reminder of that boy. That boy who he thought about for long. A long time, forever thinking about how he was getting on, how he was doing in the diseased and cruel world full of hate and disorder, wondering if that boy was even still alive. Was it true? Soujirou no Tenken? In Kyoto?   
  
Kenshin kept up the pace and ran through the herds of people, knocking some aside and most gasping in surprise as he ran faster and faster, gaining speed. There was no sight of that man.   
  
Soon, Kenshin found he was getting gradually tired. His body had been developing some sort of resistance to sickness and pestilence over the years as he never found himself to be really ill, but he seemed weak in his bones and joints, or his muscles sometimes. Some mornings he got up, alone, and just lay in bed. The majority of the time he didn't even do strenuous activity, he lay in bed. Aching. He didn't like the way it made him feel, with its oblique sense of how long he had to live. He estimated not many years were left on his life as it was. Oh well. He really had nothing else to live for anyway. Kenshin didn't even want to recall the principle of Hiten-- the will to live. He didn't want that anymore. Not ever. He was selfish, he knew. But he hadn't dealt with his own needs his whole life. His needs were to find peace. He was sick of heartache. So sick.   
  
Finally, Kenshin stopped in the road and turned around slowly, trying to catch his breath. He turned to the right side of the crowded street and lay his back against a wall. So tired, so tired ...   
  
Soujirou no Tenken... perhaps he was just a dream. A mirage. Not existing in this realm any longer. Maybe giving up was just right. Maybe.   
  
Maybe. But maybe wasn't good enough. The boy had to be alive, no matter what Kenshin's feeble inner mind might scream at him. Well, this was utterly hopeless. Finding that man in the crowded city wasn't going to improve his chances for anything. A friend? Yeah right. No one ... no one was there anymore. No one he could cry with. To share his pain. Perhaps he had brought all of this utter misery upon himself. Maybe that was the entire irony of this evil facade. He could never escape it. He had brought it all upon himself.   
  
...  
  
I can never ever escape this ... and I don't see anyone attempting to help either ... even if they did, it really wouldn't matter in the end ...  
  
Kenshin finally turned back towards north, the direction of the Aoiya. He had to go back to apologize to the Shinomori's. One more night he would stay. One more night of being semi-content. This was always dragging him down more with all of his new negative thoughts, he hated how his brain was transforming his former serene wanderer figure into a self-piteous bastard who didn't deserve to live anymore. It wasn't fair! Nothing was fair anymore!   
  
What about those who had even less fortunate lives? The samurai had forgotten that foremost. It was a terrible thing, to worry about himself above others. But what could the worthless shell of a man effect the society?   
  
The truth was that he couldn't. But he could try to live out his life to the best he possibly could. Maybe. Maybe that's what was just intended. Maybe he was ready for the death, or worse, the life.  
  
His constant closure of thought and of mind hurt him day by day, although he tried to fight it. But maybe. Maybe he would be all right.  
  
xxXXxx  
  
Night had come to the Aoiya. Darkness succumbed and flood through the city like wildfire. The Aoiya was full of excitement as the Shinomori's, (Kenshin and Midori included) celebrated Misao's spectacular twenty-seventh birthday. Candles were burning brightly about the house, lanterns strewn about as well, and though not everyone was at the party, the Shinomori's talked quietly. They emitted warm radiant light.   
  
The Aoiya had been dramatically changed from those years ago. Okina was long since gone, and the other members of the Oniwabonshuu soon after had decided that the time had come to separate. Okon and Omasu had left and begun their own professions as martial arts instructors, and the two men leaving two join Nippon's army. All four were excellent fighters and comrades, as well as friends and the light that had shone those years ago when all of the Kyoto Oniwabon Squad was around was greatly missed. But, time did go on.   
  
Misao and Aoshi had their first daughter, Midori, about three years ago. Almost as long as their marriage. But Aoshi had diminished his cold, ice like barriers when he first held the small girl in his arms that proud summer evening.   
  
Midori was the genki-est little girl to be born. Perhaps even more so than her mother, who was, of course, oh-too-proud to have a sugar-high-sunlight-and-dandelions kind of girl as her own. But, Midori was also like her father in many ways, too. She had her fits, but instead of taking her anger out on her parents as some children did with carrying on with screaming and pounding of fists, she ran to the large gingko tree and sat by it's roots, her knees to her chin, taking grass from the ground, plucking at it furiously. She sometimes cried when she was angry, but never sniffled. Tears just came down her face. Midori had a look of pure concentration usually bestowed upon her young and cheery face when she was angry like that. It was as though she was calculating how to go through with her emotions. Normal humans just tend to let their feelings out without bothering to look at what the outcome might be of the sudden burst. But even as young as Midori was, she was still Aoshi's daughter. She was a thinker. But ... as Misao so bluntly put it to Aoshi, she was a 'thinker with a cute, cheery little smile!'   
  
Midori's appearance was quaint. She was adorable, there was no denying it. But she held the studious expression and hues her father possessed. Instead of having her mother's always bright and wide orbs, she was a content child with unforeseeable actions. Her hair was long, and surprisingly snowy white, which had scared Kenshin greatly when he had first seen her. His first instincts were 'Enishi' but he realized it just must have been an ancestor of one of the parents. Midori wore partial bits of her hair in a back ponytail, the rest just grazing her shoulders. She wore kimonos at times, but usually wore her mother's old ninja gear from when she was young. Midori was only too happy to wear it, as she proudly ran about her house proclaiming she wanted to be a ninja when she was older. She wanted to be her mom. Misao was always very proud to hear that. Aoshi too, his family was thriving on love. If he was still the same cynical bastard he had been in the past, he doubted he would have gotten this far as to have a normal life, with a family and wife. It was a sense of pride that coursed through the thirty-four-year- old veins.   
  
The party had not even begun. Kenshin was just arriving and walking through the hallway when he heard the small patter of socks on wood floor. He turned his head slightly.  
  
"...oro?"  
  
"Ken-san! Konnichi wa, Ken-san!" Midori suddenly proclaimed as she ran to Kenshin and wrapped herself tightly around his legs. Her hair was up in a tight ponytail and she wore the exact duplicate of what Misao used to wear but in several sizes smaller. Her bright eyes shone with happiness as she snuggled into Kenshin even more lovingly. Kenshin smiled happily and scooped the girl into his arms. He smiled and kissed her softly on the head. She smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck.   
  
"Ah! Ken-san, Momma didn't know if you were coming, Ken-nee! But Midori knew, Midori knew all along you were coming! Ai! You love us, ne, Ken-san?" Midori said gleefully. Kenshin rubbed her hair tenderly.  
  
"Hai, Midori-chan. I do. Now let's get to your momma's party, shall we?" Kenshin placed her back on the ground.   
  
"Yay! Follow me, Ken-san!" Midori suddenly took off, turning right down a hallway and her arms flying behind her. The samurai grinned and took off his geta, lying them by the door. He also removed his sakabatou from his waist belt and rest against the wall.   
  
"MOMMA! KEN-SAN IS HERE!!"   
  
"Midori! Not so loud, I'm right here! Jeez!" came Misao's slightly irritated tone.  
  
"Watch your mouth, would you, Midori?" Aoshi replied.  
  
Kenshin smiled slightly and walked forward down the hallway, going towards the bright lights in the room to the left. He rest his hand upon the wood entrance and stared in. The room was decorated with confetti and large kanji banners which stated: 'Tanjoubi Omedetou!"   
  
Battousai walked forward and rest his hand upon Misao's shoulder lovingly.  
  
"Happy birthday, Misao-chan," Kenshin said with a warm grin. Misao giggled.  
  
"Arigatou, Himura." Misao smiled and held her daughter in her lap.  
  
The party commenced, foreign sweets called 'cakes' were eaten and sweet tea was served. Gifts were open, and finally Midori went to sleep on her father's back, twisting her little fingers in his hair. The adults put her to bed and began to chat semi-happily. Finally, at about ten-o-clock they began to talk about what had occurred that day earlier on.  
  
"Himura? What happened? You frightened me so badly," Misao said sadly. Kenshin averted his gaze, but then turned back to the genki woman. He smiled, closing his eyes.  
  
"Gomen nasai, Misao-chan. I don't know what came over me. Please forgive me. And I truly hate to spoil the good mood, de gozaru, but I will have to leave shortly. I've realized that I can't waste any more of your time, and that I really have to get back to the dojo and clean, it gets rather dirty when I'm not there ..." Kenshin knew he was rambling. He stood and began to gather his things, leaving Misao and Aoshi stunned.   
  
"Himura! What are you talking about? What do you mean 'waste our time?' You mean everything to us, Himura!" Misao called as Kenshin turned and began to walk out of the room. She stood up and was about to run after this emotionally beaten man when she stopped, dead in her tracks, and caught his side shot. He had tears streaming from his eyes, unable to stop, no cease in sight. She gasped and held her hands to her mouth. His eyes, burning, liquid amethyst, not ceasing to dry ... such a sad sight. Misao felt her own eyes well up, and Aoshi stood behind her, wondering what she had seen.  
  
"Misao?"   
  
She slumped to the ground, leaning on her knees in huge dissatisfaction, letting her own tears fall to the ground, pelting her kimono. Aoshi looked to her, rubbing her shoulders. He kissed the side of her head.  
  
"What's wrong?"   
  
Misao didn't answer. She simply sat there, not able to say anything, the tears still falling freely. She had known that man since she was sixteen years old, eleven years ago ... and she had never once seen that powerful, god-like being let a single tear drop out of his own pity. This perhaps was the most frightening thing she had ever laid eyes upon. He was losing his will.   
  
"Himura!" Misao sprung from the ground, her agile body maneuvering away form Aoshi quickly, and she sprinted out the door. She stood at the doorway, staring out at darkness, tears splashing to the ground in anguish and sorrow. She stared and found no one, not a trace that the man had ever been there.   
  
"HIMURA!" She screamed into the night. "WE CARE ABOUT YOU TOO MUCH TO LET YOU GO! DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?!" She thrashed, screaming and hitting the ground as she fell to her knees.   
  
Aoshi stood behind her, never once intervening, knowing she needed to let this out. This was a tragedy.  
  
The darkness still held impeccable annoyance as she couldn't see where he had gone off to. But, a flying, whooshing sound was heard and above Misao in the crimson light stood Himura Battousai, with eyes as yellow as the sun. He stood above, tears still streaming, he stood above in sorrow. Misao stood up, staring at him, staring into his assassin eyes and he took her shoulders, shaking madly with grief, anger, frustration, and above all else, tormenting sadness.   
  
"I know you care ... I know you care ... but that isn't ENOUGH!"   
  
And he was gone.   
  
Misao stood stunned once again, unable to say a word. No tears fell anymore, this was beyond sadness. She just stood, frozen in time, not able to conjure a happy thought. Himura ... had gone completely insane.   
  
(tbc...)  
  
xxXXxx 


	4. sono no shinji tte

xxXXxx  
  
... ano toki ...  
  
'sono no shinji tte'  
  
xxXXxx  
  
Rain fell piercingly to the ground, arguing to flood within and swallow up the man whole of his judgment. Shinta lay on the ground of the dojo, arms sprawled about his shoulders, shivering and sweating with fevering frost and glacial scalding. It had been almost one week since he had left the Aoiya.   
  
Since he had forgotten them.   
  
Although they were more than he could have ever asked, he couldn't take their kindness. He wanted to die ... no, he still wanted to live ... he wanted more than them ... but no, that was all he deserved, after all, he was nothing but presumptuous manslayer. But... every time he invoked upon his thoughts, his conscious tore apart. Each and every time the howling suggestions flung back and forth through the corridors of his unorganized mind.   
  
Their letters had streamed in through the week, pleading him for answer. He read them, but never answered. Some were from Midori-chan, pleading for 'Himura-san to return,' and he could practically hear the sickeningly delightful sound of her tragic, songbird voice, beseeching he return. Most of the letters had been written by Misao, and the rest, Aoshi. Shinta even spotted some from Okon and Omasu...he laughed to himself, as he knew that Misao would always do everything in her able power to see that her friends were well.   
  
But giving him letters wasn't going to change this feeling that ate him more and more everyday. This desire to put out the candle of life...to let his chubby stump of wax wither away, disintegrate and die...and to perhaps finally find his angel. But unwittingly, he knew that he would be pillaging the hearts of his longtime companions. That wasn't fair to anyone. Not even to himself.   
  
Shinta rolled onto his side and stared at the slightly opened doorway, the rain still cascading like fallen angels from the heavens. The clouds were thick and lined with shaven smog; the sight was almost terrifying. The lightning struck every few minutes, thereafter the undulating echo of thunder resonating throughout the city of Tokyo. The weary samurai lay still, socks and shoes thrown off somewhere, and shirt flung across the floor. It was now gathering dust from lying there for so long. He simply gazed from the floor, his slanted vision focusing away from what was in the border of the room.  
  
In the front of the dojo lay not only the remains of the late master of the Kamiya-Kasshin no Ryuu...but also the cremated relics of Kamiya Kaoru. And every time those banners were displayed upon his eyes...every time he saw those words...he just wanted to die.  
  
//Here lies Kamiya Kaoru...a beautiful wife, an exquisite Sensei, a darling woman, and almost a mother to be//  
  
Slashing...for a while he did that in hopes of dying with her...slashing parts of his arms to feel the cool tip of his own honing knife. But soon he found that was a pitiful way to pass. Seppuku...yes...he could have...but no. It wasn't how he was going to elapse. It didn't need an explanation. Kaoru would also be furious with him if he were to let go of himself.  
  
...but who was to say that not only she, but also Tomoe...both frowning? On him? Yes...they both must be, he thought. This world of evil was fitting for the unjust man whom he was created to be. He didn't blame this heartache on anyone but himself. Not Buddha, not God, not any higher being, but only on Shinta and Shinta alone.   
  
The rain was his only isolated company now. The ame of beautiful time...if perhaps they were the tears of those two...those two, then he could stand and possibly go on. Some shred of proof that they could of been around with him. Iie...he waited ten years for that after Tomoe had sprung forth from continuation.   
  
The rain still drizzled with a slosh upon the rooftop, the only sound he could hear. Everything else was swallowed by defeat. And Shinta was still alone. He swathed his arms even more securely around his body, and began to whimper, the wet, salty tears sticking to the floor and dampening his hair to the ground again. He curled himself into a ball and stayed there, afraid of moving, but afraid of staying there, for what if he died in that spot? What if he just...slipped?   
  
Footsteps in the sound of rain. The footsteps of a pair of wooden geta...moving closer. A child caught in the storm, Shinta assumed as he still wept inaudibly. But he could still hear them moving closer and closer. Those footsteps sounded like those of an intruder. They...were trying to hide themselves.   
  
The paper door slowly opened ajar, and Shinta stared as he held his sword in hand, ready to attack. He had peeled himself from the ground and stood weakly, gazing at the figure, bathed in shadow. He continued to stare, and the only sound between he and the interloper was the pitter of the rain hitting his face and hitting the ground beyond the man's reach. And it stretched.   
  
...  
  
"I knew I would find you here, Himura-san." Came the low voice, calm, serene, and with a shaded tint of happiness. The vision stepped forward, shaking his hair from the rain's grasp and stood before Shinta.   
  
"Seta-"  
  
"We can talk later, Himura-san." Soujirou said quietly as he removed his jacket and geta. Shinta in spite of everything stood, staring at the boy with utter confusion and shock, holding his sword loosely. Soujirou quirked his lips up into a smile. He breathed into speak and closed his eyes as he walked forward a few paces.   
  
"I knew you'd-"  
  
But before he could finish his statement, warm arms wrapped themselves around Seta's waist and Shinta grabbed Soujirou into a tight but slightly weak spirited hug. The blade clattered to the ground as time stood still. Shinta dug his damp face into Soujirou's hakama and dig his fingers into the Tenken's back, clawing for affection and release. Shinta began to cry into his shirt, and Soujirou awkwardly rubbed his back while he attempted to soothe him.   
  
Pelting rain that never stopped. It kept going; keeping them locked as the man sobbed of happiness and fear.  
  
"--I thought I would never see you again...I was sure you were gone..." Shinta alleged in a whisper, still slumped in the hakama. Soujirou stared down at the ex-hitokiri with wide, cerulean orbs of perplexity. This man had ...changed somehow. He--he seemed less physically powerful, and now...it was all-wrong. But despite that, Soujirou saw that this man needed assistance. He was dying, after all.  
  
"Don't worry, Himura...-kun. I'm...here for you," Soujirou whispered inelegantly. Shinta stared up into the man's bottomless aoi orbs and faked a diminutive smile. He let his head fall back into the boiyo's hakama and stood, not saying a word.   
  
"What has happened to you, Himura-kun?" Soujirou asked sympathetically, his hands not leaving Shinta's shoulders. He kept his loose but firm grip on the man as Shinta even stood. Silence reigned once more as he said not one word.  
  
"Would you in truth be sated if I were to tell you, Seta-san?"   
  
Soujirou uneasily gaped at the older man with confusion, but then he understood, bowing his head slightly.   
  
"...no...I am truly sorry," The Tenken affirmed, lethal hush resting over he and Himura. Soujirou shifted slightly again and rest his chin on the other's scarlet and virtually aged hair. He breathed in the scent, detecting old remnants of cherry-blossom fumes. It smelled nice, elegant. "Do you accept my apology, Himura-san?"   
  
"Hai. You didn't know. And you still don't. Let's keep it that way for right now."   
  
Soujirou had realized the situation, but it still felt like he was dreaming. It was an odd reverie, almost like an elegy weaved into contemplation, but it was not. He still stood.   
  
In this haze and bewilderment, he realized over the years he had grown a few inches taller than Himura-san. So now he stood, his head inching over the top and inhaling the vapors of him. The sweet but regretful aroma of him. Of Himura.   
  
"I-should stop...I'm sorry to have put you in an uncomfortable position, de gozaru," Shinta whispered gently. He eased his way from Soujirou and walked gradually to where his geta lay. The redhead put them on, grabbed his shirt and walked from the room. Soujirou unhurriedly followed and shuffled out of the room after Shinta.   
  
The two walked out in almost single file, but both stopped as they realized the sun had almost come out, and now the sky was as azure as little Ayame's ball. A rainbow was bestowed upon them and they stared, not saying a word to one another. A moment of indulging acceptance filled the area and it was over.   
  
The niji of magnificence.  
  
"Sono no shinji tte, Soujirou-dono," Shinta said quietly without turning around. "I always felt you have."   
  
"And I you, Kenshin."  
  
"Please call me Shinta. I now only refer to myself as Shinta, the boy of the red-hearted village, de gozaru."  
  
A sigh from Shinta was heard and he turned around to the other. Soujirou nodded.  
  
"Hai, Shinta-san."  
  
(tbc)  
  
xxXXxx 


	5. sotto me o tojite

xxXXxx  
  
... ano toki ...  
  
sotto me o tojite   
  
(it's okay to close your eyes)  
  
xxXXxx  
  
disclaimer: i do not own rurouni kenshin. i am but a lowly 16 year old girl who eats eggs and sleeps in her clothes she wears during the day when she get too engrossed in typing. that's all. please don't hurt me. *ah!*   
  
more notes: -...- -- denotes thinking of one person  
  
xxXXxx  
  
The sun set dangerously, its wide open sight splayed across the fields in ruby, carrot, and golden emissions. Shinta gazed out the window of his home at the sight with a majestic trance. His heliotrope orbs were blank and pale, but he held some satisfaction in his heart for this day. The Tenken had returned to Tokyo. To him. This was joyous. And yet, it was humble.   
  
"Shinta?"  
  
He turned, seeing a modest appearance on Soujirou as the boy stared at him. Soujirou stood at the counter, slicing vegetables for the food he was preparing. Shinta smiled in his direction with counterfeit pleasure.   
  
"Hai?" He asked. Soujirou stopped in his chopping procedure and walked slightly over to the window where Shinta sat.   
  
"Oh...n-never mind," Soujirou replied, a hasty expression lain across his face. Shinta stared at him with slight amusement.   
  
"Hontou wa?"   
  
"Yes, it's nothing, pretend I said nothing at all," Soujirou stated and hurried back to the cutting board. Shinta gazed after the retreating figure (which didn't go far). He stood and stretched his muscles, letting his crimson locks tickle down his back and he shuffled over to the ebony-maned samurai.   
  
"S-shinta-san?"   
  
"Hmm?" Came the solace reply. The redhead took his hands and guided them across the taller man's back daringly, waiting for confused or aghast retort. There came none. Soujirou simply stood, still holding the cutting knife and the only sound between the two was the soft whistling of a pot boiling over.  
  
"My wife is dead."  
  
"..."  
  
The rubbing and close contact continued. Shinta rearranged his arms about the man and held them loosely around his torso. He breathed in the scent around him. Anxiousness, questioning, and even an iota frightened. These were the things running through the mind of Seta. But--it was okay...it was...confusing...  
  
He just had to keep waiting.  
  
"S-she died? How, may I ask?" arrived the choked query from the Tenken. A brush of small breeze ruffled past his tresses, and he grasped that it was a hand making small designs, coiling, twisting, daring. A diminutive sigh was heard, and Shinta still breathed intensely into his back, hugging closer to him.   
  
-He will need to know-  
  
"The Plague."  
  
"Nani?"  
  
"A fatal disease...it contorts the skin, the contours of the human body are distorted and destroyed, all human color is stolen replaced by a vile, decayed hue. And I saw it all. She was dying and I didn't know until it was too late to help her. She died in the dojo, you know," He said all in a tired whisper. "She died in my arms."   
  
Additional deafening hush took hold and an awkward yet mind-sickening moment was set upon the Tenken.  
  
"Gomen nasai, Himura-san...I had no idea..."   
  
"I don't want your pity de gozaru. I just want you to stay," Came the small, resonant statement. It was like a plea, a prayer, and a hinting desire for company. "Everyone else has left me, Soujirou-san...please don't go."  
  
"I won't, I would never," Soujirou stated solemnly. He felt his eyes fill with emotion and dismay, and a small tear glided down the curve of his cheekbone. Shinta still held on, and he shook quietly. He was crying as well.   
  
-Is this what is left? What I came for?-  
  
...  
  
-Maybe. Maybe not. But it's what is now. And it's what I need to help-  
  
"I won't leave unless you want me to. How's that?" The dark-haired boy offered to the redhead calmly. Shinta shook less. He relaxed his grip on the Tenken's hakama and slinked in front of him, a look on his face which was unreadable. They stared in stalemate and the water finally cooled as it stopped spilling over by the sink. Shinta wilted onward faintly; the Tenken watching faithfully and carefully all the while.   
  
"I don't want you to leave at all. I need someone. Someone I can depend on, and help me. Dasukete, Soujirou. I truly need it. I heed it. I understand it. I embrace it. And I think no one but you is the one who can fulfill this burden I need requited. Is this understood?" Shinta alleged with more illegible sentiment. Soujirou sustained his locked gaze on the man before him, and nodded without hesitance or resistance.   
  
"Hai. I understand you. I always have."  
  
"That's good. Now let's just have a nice meal, shall we?" Shinta smiled partially-content. And so they prepared the rest of the meal in calm silence, not uncomfortable silence, but rather a tranquil, needed peace. Discussion would be utilized during the meal. During other times. Then, it wasn't necessary. It wasn't needed to express that moment. Shinta stared up to the taller man twice while chopping onions and smiled to him. And the dark-haired man smiled back. And that's how it was.   
  
---  
  
"Do you enjoy the rice, Seta-san?"   
  
Bowls clanked quietly and were passed from being A to being B with ease and uncomfortable comfort. Ironic, sarcastic remarks could have been made, but they were not.   
  
"Ah, Himura-kun. Very much, arigatou gozaimasu."   
  
"Mmm. Good."   
  
Shinta ate his food quietly on bended knee upon his cushion, composedly sipping his green tea and eating his dish. Seta, on the other hand, was feeling nervous. It wasn't the compromising assured promise he had made, what with the elaborate emotion and all, but it was this unnerving silence that was ebbing away at him like a disease. There was so much he was dying to say, but he couldn't articulate without making himself look like a fool. He had murdered Okubo-san those years ago, Shinta would never forgive him of that. He had murdered his family, Shinta saw the sting in that memory as he had before, but Soujirou knew that the man still believed there could have been an alternative. And the countless victims...oh, so many bodies that were never found, to be forgotten...those families that were probably never found their loved ones that had been executed... Soujirou had put out their lights. He blew out their candles one by one in the long, desecrated hallway of Eternia, and that sin of breath unleashed inched back upon him like the reaper cold hand urging for vengeance. How could one simply walk into a conversation when one knew that old memoirs one had anticipated to be over and done with to suddenly spring to life, as though those corpses had come back to haunt him? It was impossible to talk to this man on general terms, for it would lead back to the thing that both of them knew they could not escape. Death. Everywhere. So he kept his mouth somewhat shut, besides the occasional thought that he felt wouldn't harm anyone by projecting. But...  
  
"Frightened to speak? What could you be afraid of, Tenken?" Shinta supposed aloud with slight amusement through his meal. "I can discern your dread. Of what? Those luminous, catlike golden orbs you've been told about? I've discarded those long ago.. they not only brought fear to the name 'Himura' more than my presence itself, which I don't need anymore as it is, but even so, they don't suit me. I'm not made to have immoral eyes like those." He smiled softly and closed those mauve, liquid ovals that he owned in a lined expression. "I'll never have to use those eyes again. Never ever."   
  
"I was afraid of--of perhaps your perception of me now. You know I've changed, I hope to say. I am not the demented killer I was those many moons ago." Soujirou explained slowly. Shinta gazed at him. Then he burst out into gales of laughter.  
  
"You-you think I haven't considered that you've tainted yourself? Are you out of your mentality even more so than before?" He paused to put down his bowl and to suppress his laughter, although he wasn't doing a fine job. "I know you've changed. And I'm conjecturing that you have also made the very same oath I made when I was eighteen? To never slay again?" He stopped laughing, but mild giggles were heard at minor times, and petite droplets of tears came gushing from his eyes. Soujirou looked intently at this emotional-wreck of a man with mysticism.  
  
"And even if I did, you're still a doddering old fool who is sobbing like a baby into my shirt one minute, then streaming tears of utter hilarity the next. You disturbing elderly idiot!" Then it was at that time that Soujirou began to chuckle. The two ruptured into mirth and glee as the dinner still lay on the table, the samurai sharing a warm moment and exchanging momentary looks through the instant.   
  
The diminutive feast was cleared from the table after they had completed the amusement of the thoughts they spewed and subsequent to actually finishing it altogether. They cleaned those dishes that they had soiled and soon, the hours of darkness had befallen them quickly. The contemplation of where the Tenken was to sleep was a mystery to both occupants of the Kamiya dojo.   
  
"I suppose I could go out and sleep in the dojo if you wish, Shinta-san," Soujirou suggested nonchalantly. Shinta turned to him while they stood in the hallway, considering what to do. His eyes creased upwards into half-moons as he grinned.  
  
"No, it's much too cold in there at night. I don't want you getting sick. Besides--" He walked forward and arched his way into the younger man's grasp- "--what if I was to need you while you were away?" He furrowed his lips into a girlish, devilish game he had invented. Soujirou reddened intensely and stepped away from the daring man. His aoi orbs burned into the ground, trying to find succor by avoiding those crooning, lethargic wine colored ones that enticed him.   
  
"D-dame! I-I can sleep in the dojo, I'm perfectly safe, Shinta-san!" Came the hastened reply of the dark-haired boy. Shinta smirked.   
  
"Fine." He smiled genuinely. "I accept your answer. Do you need clothing? I suspect you arrived here for the sole intention of knowing my well being was in order, and the factor of clothes was temporarily unimportant?" Shinta arched an eyebrow to the younger man as he stared up to him. Soujirou erratically dipped his head. Shinta grinned.  
  
"It's what I had believed. Oh well, I hope you fit into some of my things, Soujirou-kun. Although, I'm not sure of your preference of undergarments. Mine are a little...leisurely, if you please. Follow me." Shinta Soujirou gulped and pursued him into his room, as Kenshin rifled through the closet, full of clothing. Over the years, Kaoru had bought him many garments. He never threw one away, no matter how silly or strange, for they held love. Such love he didn't think he could bear anything he owned to belong to someone else, for everything Shinta owned was in one way or another related to Kaoru. He suddenly pulled out two fabric items out of a small drawer and shut the entrance of his closet, rotating around to face the baffled Soujirou, bathed in half-moonlight. Shinta grinned.   
  
"Excuse me a second, I'll hand you your night clothes in just one moment, I have to change, de gozaru yo."   
  
Soujirou found himself being quickly moved out of the room and he stood in the hallway, perplexed at the events that had just occurred. W-was he hearing correctly?  
  
Suddenly, the door glided open and Shinta stood before him, holding out a pair of white underclothing. Soujirou looked from the garment with a blush, then blushed deeper into discomfiture as he looked to the man ahead of him.   
  
"Konnichi wa, de gozaru," Shinta said casually. He stood wearing nothing but a nicely fit thong, the only thing gracing his curved figure. He was stunning. His hair lay in tangled tresses about his shoulders and his eyes held tired wisdom and thin delight. "Do you like it? For it's what you have to wear as well, de gozaru yo!" More grinning. Soujirou covered his eyes, not saying a word. He thrust his hand in front of Shinta, waiting.  
  
"Oro?"   
  
"Give it to me before I go ballistic and change my mind, Himura!" Soujirou yelled quietly, only semi-angrily. "Just hand it to me, and then I'll come and say konbanwa one last time, okay?" He affirmed, aggravated. Shinta snickered.   
  
"Ooh...touchy. I like that," He giggled.   
  
"Stop that!"  
  
"Hai, de gozaru!"  
  
...  
  
-Yeah, right-  
  
---  
  
Soujirou shifted in his half-sleep as the moon's luminosity surged upon the dusty floor. In and out of rem... in and out. All he could think about was that mopey, emotional dupe Himura...and how much he decided he cared for that sap. Shinta was venting. He couldn't around certain people, but, Soujirou seemed to be someone he could deem laudable in this circumstance.   
  
But besides the things that made Himura -Himura-, the cascading and colliding thoughts of his body slithered everywhere in Soujirou's violated intellect. That beautiful, unattainable essence. No, he wasn't unattainable. But, was he really thinking this through? Was this something he needed?   
  
He still waged a reasonable amount of respect for that man, that man that had once irritated him to the point of lunacy. He still considered him a fair opponent. But--he wasn't sure about what was going on inside the petite and outright lusciously scented head of Himura no Battousai. Sexual undertones were being thrown left and right...and--and what was he going to do?  
  
He dug his palm into the bend of his forehead.  
  
-Oh hell...I'm going insane-  
  
(tbc)  
  
xxXXxx 


End file.
